Felicia just nodded as if making the connection; they now had access to secondary independent reports.
Rather than leave the office, they took the paperwork to one of the unused meeting rooms, and locked the door behind them. The desk inside was oval and long, designed to seat twenty people. Striker took his position at one end, and Felicia the other.
Then they got to work.
Twenty minutes later, Striker was skimming through some of the attachments – Civilian Statements, primarily – while Felicia was reading the Chronological Timeline that Osaka had entered on his own investigation into the Chipotle shooting.
‘One thing about Osaka,’ she said. ‘He was thorough.’
Striker nodded. ‘Public image. He had to be on a file like this. The shooter was Rothschild – one of our own guys. Nowadays, the Vancouver Police Department wouldn’t even investigate the call. We’d send it to an outside agency, probably Abbotsford or Delta.’
‘For impartiality.’
He nodded. ‘Optics are everything.’
When Striker finished reading the complete narrative of the shooting, he re-read the bombing report on Chipotle’s wife and kids. After a long while he looked up and frowned. ‘Everything appears to be on the level. At exactly nine o’clock in the morning, Chipotle’s house is blown sky-high.’
‘From a bomb Sleeves set.’
Striker nodded. ‘The wife and two daughters are killed, and no one can find Chipotle anywhere. Then, at two in the afternoon, a civilian calls in. She sees a man with a machine gun down by the river. He’s crying, screaming, aiming the gun at people.’
‘And she calls 911.’
Striker ran his finger down the timelines on the page. ‘First, Dispatch thinks it’s just some crazy guy wandering around. They send Patrol. But then they realize it really is an automatic weapon, so they call in the Emergency Response Team.’
Felicia knew the file well, and she chimed in:
‘But the Vancouver ERT unit is already on another call in District 1. And this call is right on the Vancouver-Burnaby border, so they order in the Integrated Unit.’
Striker held up his finger. ‘But . . . they’re still short on bodies for a full team. And with the information about an AK-47, there’s no time to waste. So they throw together an impromptu team using reserves. They lock down the block and the river, but by now Chipotle’s gone inside one of the houses. They try to call him out. But he’s having none of it.’
Felicia looked at the medical section of the report which held the cocaine levels. ‘Not only is he grieving, but he’s all coked-out. Completely irrational.’
‘And he blames the cop several times for selling him out after he “gave them the information they wanted”.’ Striker read back through the narrative. ‘He blames the police for the death of his wife and kids.’
The words hit him like a hammer. He stopped reading and looked over at Felicia with a sick look on his face. ‘So, essentially, what we have here is an agent, regularly selling information about the Prowlers back to the police, and then accusing his handlers of selling him out.’
She winced. ‘It sounds bad.’
‘Does it get any worse?’ He took a moment to write this information down in his notebook, then continued: ‘So the stand-off with Chipotle goes on for over an hour with no progress made whatsoever. Koda is the sergeant at the time, and he makes the decision to breach.’
‘And Chipotle opens fire.’
‘Massive gun battle.’ Striker turned to the conclusion. ‘In the end, the fatal bullet comes from Mike Rothschild’s rifle; this was verified by ballistics. Mike is cleared of any wrongdoing and receives the highest award for bravery the department can give – the Award of Valour.’
‘As he damn well should,’ Felicia said. ‘They all should. Their lives were on the line out there. And the shooting was basic. I don’t see why it went to a full internal investigation anyway.’
Striker turned past the conclusion page. At the end of the report was one page of miscellaneous notes:
Injuries – Police Constable Davies.
‘Oh boy,’ Striker said. ‘This is why . . . Chipotle wasn’t the only one who got shot that day – that prick tagged one of our own.’
Felicia wasn’t aware of this, and the news made her eyes narrow. ‘Who?’
‘Some guy named Archer Davies . . . I’ve never heard of him before. Maybe he was a Fed cop, I’m not sure. Regardless, he was the breacher for Team Red that day. Not a full ERT member, but a reserve.’
‘Did he survive?’ Felicia asked the words almost regretfully.
Striker turned the page and saw nothing else. ‘He must have survived – he’s listed as Injured, not Deceased. Plus there’s no link to a second homicide report. Either way, we got two people shot at this call – Archer Davies and Carlos Chipotle. It’s an avenue that needs pursuing. Write it down.’
Felicia did. When she was done, she looked up with a sick expression. ‘This is gonna sound bad, because it’s terrible that this Archer guy got shot . . . but I still don’t see how it necessitates a full internal investigation into the shooting of Chipotle. Once again, we know that Rothschild was the one who shot him. And we know that Chipotle was all coked-out and blasting away with an AK-47 – that much is indisputable.’
Striker nodded. ‘The problem here is one of timing.’
‘What timing?’
He pointed to various segments in the report. ‘Carlos Chipotle was shot at 14:23 hours – that time was taken directly from the CAD call. Chipotle died not two minutes later at 14:25 – also taken directly from the CAD call.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘The problem is this: at 14:24 hours, one of the units went over the air telling everyone, and I quote, “He’s giving up. He’s coming out! Hands clear.”’
Felicia made an oh-shit sound, and Striker continued.
‘When the incident was over, no one would admit to going over the air with that remark, but the dispatcher heard it because she typed it into the CAD call.’
‘Can’t they just check the radio number?’
Striker shook his head. ‘No. Don’t forget, this was before the radios went digital. Back then, everything was analogue. A radio was just a radio. There was no way of linking which unit was broadcasting at any one time. So not only were the radios not encrypted, but people could say whatever they damn well wanted to over the air.’
He skimmed back through the report pages until he found the police statement of Constable Mike Rothschild.
‘In his statement, Rothschild says he heard someone say: “He’s coming out! Heads up!” When Chipotle stepped into the doorway, he still had the AK-47 in his hands. Rothschild says he feared for the safety of his squadmates and he took the shot. End of story.’
By the time Striker had finished speaking, Felicia’s expression had darkened.
‘As much as I hate to admit it, Jacob, the optics are bad here. Real bad. In fact, if someone didn’t know any better, you know what it looks like?’
Striker nodded gravely.
‘A police execution.’
One Hundred and Nine
The bomber and Molly drove south, dressed in matching paramedic uniforms. Molly was uncertain and edgy; she had been prepared to wait and reassess their plans. But he would hear nothing of it. He was determined to find Target 1.
Today.
His body was against him now. He could not deny that. He felt overheated. Exhausted. Weak. So unusually weak. But that was all okay, he told himself, because they were finishing this entire operation. And despite the failings of his body, a part of him felt good inside. Really, really good.